The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  He pushed one plate in front of her with a no nonsense, “Eat.”

  She picked up a fork, waiting for him to join her. He sat beside her and took a mouthful of coffee, watching her over the rim in expectation. Christie speared a forkful of eggs. Martin nodded to himself and started eating.

  “Thanks.” Christie said between mouthfuls. She stopped for a moment to butter her toast, glancing at Martin, who studied her with that same pained gaze from earlier.

  “It is delicious.” she said before biting into the toast.

  “Are you always like this? Not looking after yourself?” Martin shook his head.

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe. Love your coffee. I have a thing about coffee.”

  He got up and took her now empty cup. “So do I. Same as wine, why drink it unless it is good quality. Applies to much of life, actually.”

  CHRISTIE FINISHED EVERY morsel, wishing she could eat it all again. Now she was done, she glanced around the living room. “Where’s Randall?”

  Over the grumble of the coffee machine, Martin raised his voice. “Probably in the studio.”

  “You have a studio?”

  Martin did not answer, so Christie waited until he brought fresh coffees over.

  “Where’s your studio?”

  “Just over there.” he waved in the general direction. “He likes sleeping there in the morning. Sunny and quiet.”

  “So, you’re an artist?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Christie wondered if he was a collector as well. Maybe of local art and that’s why he wanted her painting so much. She hesitated to ask in case it disturbed this pleasant truce.

  “Um, last night...”

  “When do you leave?”

  “What? Oh, early in the morning I think.”

  “When will you come back?”

  Christie shook her head. “I don’t know. I’d like it to be soon, but in a couple of weeks, I’ll be in London for a while so it may not be possible to come back before I go. Why?”

  “Have you thought anymore about selling me the painting?” There, it was said.

  “Yes. Have you thought about telling me who its rightful owner is?”

  Martin put his coffee cup down and started to clear their breakfast plates. Christie watched him stack them on the side of the sink, then return the butter to the fridge. His demeanour was not upset or angry, but nor was he forthcoming. It was so frustrating. Finally, he stopped moving around the kitchen and stood on the other side of the counter, arms crossed and expression thoughtful.

  “Would you leave it with me while you’re away?”

  “The painting?”

  “Leave it here in River’s End. It will stay safe and that way you’re not transporting it all over the place.”

  “I’d not even thought about whether to leave it in the cottage or take it to Melbourne and get it valued.”

  For the third time this morning, Martin’s expression was frustrated. “Its value is whatever a buyer will pay.”

  “Not helpful if it needs insuring. What do you think it is worth?”

  “How much do you want?”

  Christie rolled her eyes at Martin, who raised an eyebrow.

  “How about we stop going round in circles, Martin. You tell me what you know about the painting and I’ll consider selling it to you at a fair price.”

  “Do you roll your eyes at your fiancé?” Martin wandered around the counter and sat back on his stool whilst Christie stared at him in surprise. “You wouldn’t do it if you were engaged to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d never knowingly disrespect you and would expect the same in return.”

  He ran his hands over his lap, stopping with one palm on each knee, and leaned forward a fraction, dark eyes serious. “I highly value respect.”

  Christie could not help herself. “What would you do?”

  Martin sat back and picked up his coffee cup. “That’s a discussion for another day.”

  He finished his coffee but continued to nurse the cup. Christie had no idea what to make of this strange conversation. She had the oddest sensation of light-headedness and realised she was holding her breath. Martin seemed oblivious to this and continued speaking.

  “If you must know, there’s someone I wish to show the painting to. I’ll care for it; I promise you and when you return, if you want it I’ll give it back.”

  “Just like that? With no arguments?” Christie forced a smile.

  “More or less. Are we agreed?”

  “I need to think about it.”

  Martin nodded and took her car keys out of a pocket.

  “Oh, I forgot the T-shirt.”

  “Keep it.”

  Christie reached out with her left hand. She still wore Martha’s engagement ring. Martin released the keys and glanced at her questioningly.

  “Forgot I had that on. It helps me feel closer to her.”

  “To your grandmother?”

  “Um, no, to Martha, my great-aunt. This was one of the secrets left in the cottage for me.”

  Instantly, Martin got up and stalked away, his expression almost as angry as the day they first met at the graveyard. He headed for the sliding door, his body rigid.

  “What’s wrong, Martin?” Christie grabbed her bag and followed.

  At the door, he paused. “Let it go. Nothing good can come of this, Christie, just drop it.”

  “But, why?” Christie reached Martin, confused.

  “Please trust me about this.”

  “It’s not about trust. Gran wanted me to find out about Martha... and others.”

  “Then we’re on opposite sides.”

  “What? No, I don’t understand. Please help me understand all of this.”

  Martin sighed and went out onto the deck, back to the same spot he was in earlier in the day. He stared out at the sea.

  “Go home, Christie. Go back to Derek and your fancy life.” He delivered the words in a monotone. “There’s nothing here for you. Sell the cottage, the painting, the ring. Make a profit and go and find a happy life for yourself.”

  Why are you saying this? Christie gazed at him through wide eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest and her stomach tied up in a knot. More than ever before, she wanted to stay. With sudden clarity, it hit her. It was emotion. Raw, powerful emotions rising above anything else Christie had ever experienced and this complex, difficult man had as much to do with them as the beautiful region and the funny little cottage she already loved.

  “I don’t want to go.” Emotion choked her voice.

  “There’s nothing here for you. You are a Ryan, and your family aren’t welcome in River’s End. Go back to Melbourne, city girl.”

  Hand over her mouth, Christie turned and ran down the steps as she had the previous night. Tears blinded her as she sprinted to the gate, where she stopped, sobbing for a moment, before slipping through it.

  IT WAS A FEW MINUTES until Martin heard the Lotus start. Long, painful minutes where he held onto the railing so hard his hands hurt. Gripping those rails was the only thing that stopped him going after Christie when he heard her crying.

  She would never understand why this had been a bad idea. He was furious with himself for inviting her into his world. Her family and his could never unite.

  As the car drove away, Martin remembered his words about respect. That he would never intentionally disrespect her. What he had just done was worse. Necessary, perhaps, but not fair to either of them.

  Fifteen

  THE GREY LIGHT OF MORNING and familiar sounds of traffic roused Christie from the deep sleep that, exhausted, she succumbed to in the early hours. She opened her eyes to a wet Melbourne dawn and curled back in under the covers, wishing herself back in River’s End.

  She arrived home in the middle of yesterday afternoon, packing and closing up the cottage within a couple of hours of running away from Martin's house. Her emotions were a jumbled mess, and it had taken the entire drive home to get some co
ntrol back over them.

  As she unpacked, her mind became calmer and more organised. She opened all of the windows and let the sounds and smells of Docklands fill the rooms. Periodically, she stopped putting her things away and watched the boats and the people below going about their business.

  The bottles of wine went into the almost empty fridge. Her stomach was also empty but not from hunger. It was as though a big hole sucked all the light and colour from her life. It was too early to revisit those last moments with Martin, but his calmly delivered words had shattered some fragile part of herself.

  After a while, Christie slid her feet out of bed and sat there for a moment. The city was under a cloud of hazy rain, and there was little to welcome her home. This was how her first day in River's End had been. She sighed and got up, longing for a shower and coffee before heading out to South Melbourne Markets to stock up for Derek's return later today.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, the sky cleared and the day turned into a more pleasant late spring afternoon. The shopping trip resulted in a full fridge and pantry. Christie forced herself to eat a handful of plump strawberries but barely tasted them.

  Now, she sat on the balcony with freshly brewed coffee. Soon, Derek would be home, and her attention would turn to putting things right with him. For now, though, her mind strayed back to a decision she made yesterday.

  AFTER PACKING HER BAGS, Christie had stood in front of the painting for a few moments, unsure of her next move. When Martin asked her to leave the painting with him for a while, she almost said yes on the spot. If he had not reacted the way he did to seeing Martha’s ring, she would probably have gone home and got it for him.

  His words still resonated, slicing into Christie like a knife but with all of her heart, she knew there was more to it than him wanting to hurt her. He was protecting himself or someone else. Maybe even just the memory of Thomas. What harm could it do to leave it with Martin while she was away? If anything, it might prove to him she was not, as he claimed, on an opposing side.

  Christie took the painting off the hook and wrapped it back in the sheet. With every step, she second-guessed herself. What if he kept it? What if he was so upset he refused to take it? What would Gran think of all of this?

  Christie knew she was unable to take it to him. Instead, she drove into town.

  Daphne was behind the counter when Christie pushed the door open, carrying the painting in its sheet.

  “Oh, Christie! How wonderful to see you, lovely.” Daphne beamed as she stood up.

  "Hi, Daphne. I'm going to ask a huge favour, but please say no if it doesn't suit."

  “Of course, anything. I was so hoping to see you before you left.”

  It was impossible not to smile at Daphne’s friendliness. “I’m on my way now. All packed and about to head home.”

  “Well, it’s sad to see you go, I have to say. I hope it won’t be for too long?”

  “Hopefully not. Would you mind doing something for me? I get the feeling you get on pretty well with Martin?”

  “Oh, yes indeed! Is that for him?”

  “Sort of. He offered to keep it while I’m gone and I, well...”

  Daphne rushed around the counter, delighted. “You must be hurrying off to see your young man! No time to drop it up the hill? You let me worry about that, lovely.”

  “Daphne, thank you. If you phone Martin, I’m sure he’ll come and pick it up.”

  "Yes, I'll do that. I guess it's that painting you wanted to be fixed?"

  “He did an amazing job.”

  "I told you he's a good boy! Now, give me a hug, and you head back to the city. But come back soon. You are so welcome here in our little town!" Daphne gave Christie a tight squeeze.

  Driving down the main street a few moments later, Christie slowed past the bakery. Belinda was putting cakes in the window, and she wanted to weep. There were wonderful people here, people who welcomed her without judgement.

  Why had Martin decided what sort of person she was before they had even spoken? Not even giving her a chance to get her bearings, he had worked it all out – wrongly of course. What had happened to the man to make him so bitter and uncompromising?

  Going past the graveyard, she glanced across and whispered a silent farewell. Sorrow and grief intermingled with fear of what was ahead. A bittersweet love for the cottage and town entwined with utter confusion over the house on the hill and its complicated owner.

  NOW, A DAY LATER, CHRISTIE wondered if she had done the right thing. Leaving the painting had been a big leap of faith and trust in a man who rattled her more than any other person in her life. The pain Derek caused with his unkind words about Gran paled compared to those parting shots from Martin.

  Well, Christie decided, that was because she loved and knew Derek so well. He never set out to hurt her. He was disappointed. He was not what Christie would call an emotional man, so occasionally expressing himself might be healthy.

  His temperament suited hers, helping Christie to control herself and keep a more level head when he was around.

  She glanced at her reflection in the window and decided to change into something a bit more suitable than jeans.

  DEREK LET HIMSELF INTO the apartment with both suitcases. A week ago, he stood in this spot and watched Christie stare out of the window, oblivious to his presence. Today, she was nowhere around. Was she even home? The French doors leading to the balcony were open, so yes, she was.

  He glanced in the entrance mirror, pleased with how his tan complemented a new white silk shirt. Very smart casual, he thought. Footsteps approached, and he gathered himself before turning to greet her.

  Christie wore a plain white dress and white dress sandals as well as a gold chain Derek had given her when they first got together. She had double-checked she had her engagement ring on, not Martha’s. Her hair was straightened and swept across one shoulder. She knew she presented an attractive picture and used that confidence to summon a smile.

  Derek waited for Christie to come to him, which she did, kissing his cheek. “Hi.”

  “You’ve lost weight. I like you a bit curvier.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will come back once I’m working again. Coffee?” she said, heading for the kitchen without waiting for an answer. After a moment, she heard him go to out to the balcony. Always a negative comment, she thought, adding milk to Derek’s cup before remembering he had his black. She threw it out and started again, wondering what was wrong with herself.

  Two coffees in hand, she joined him, where he tapped on his phone. As he wrote a text message, she gazed out at the water, thinking how much she would love to own a yacht.

  After a couple of minutes, he put the phone away and picked up his cup.

  “New shirt?”

  “Yeah, found it in the boutique on the island. Would have got you something but didn’t know what you’d like.”

  Christie had no reply so sipped her coffee. On the phone the other day, Derek said he had gained weight, but there was no sign of that. The light tan suited him, and he had dyed the grey out of his hair. Not that she minded it, but it always bothered him.

  “Still wearing my ring.”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  "Been disappointed this week, Chris. You know, we'd talked about commitment and spending more time together when you got back from L.A. unless you've forgotten."

  Commitment goes two ways.

  “Being up there on my own gave me plenty of time to think. To consider... options.”

  “What kind of options, Derek?”

  “No, I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

  “Okay. What would you like to talk about?”

  "I thought we should host a small dinner party. You're an amazing cook when you set your mind to it, and it'd be fun to have friends over."

  Thrown by the sudden change of direction the conversation had taken, Christie nodded.

  “So, tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow? That might be short notice fo
r guests.”

  "Not at all. Ingrid and Leon are staying in Melbourne for a few days, so I wanted to extend our hospitality."

  “You already invited them?” Christie knew the answer. If Derek wanted something, he made it happen. Rather than checking with Christie – the person who would be preparing this dinner party – he assumed she would fall in line with his plans. As she always did.

  “Four isn’t much of a party though, so you’d better ask the boys next door if they’re free. Leon should get on pretty well with them.”

  “Do you have anything in mind for dinner? Any likes or dislikes from Ingrid and Leon?”

  "Didn't notice. Just work your magic on the food, and I'll take care of the drinks."

  “If you like, use a bottle of the Chardonnay I brought home. Beautiful local wine. What?”

  Derek was frowning. “I think we can manage a bit more upmarket, don’t you? Like something from a decent winery that will show Victoria off to our guests.”

  “What better way than from an authentic small wine grower?”

  "Well, you let me know by tomorrow what you're cooking, and I'll work on the right accompaniments. Okay?"

  “Sure. I might go and ask Ashley and Ray if they’re free tomorrow. You enjoy the view, I won’t be long.”

  Christie took her cup into the kitchen and rinsed it, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts. Derek was acting odd. Last minute dinner parties with pre-arranged guests. Hinting he was rethinking their relationship but refusing to discuss it. Not bringing anything home for her from what should have been their holiday, when he usually showered her with gifts.

  It occurred to Christie that Derek might be unsure of their relationship now. Perhaps he was afraid she might be about to leave him, so he planted a seed of doubt about his own feelings. Face-saving, just in case she called it all off. She sighed, having no intention of playing these games but somehow always backing down instead of asking the hard questions.

  FROM THE DAY CHRISTIE moved into the apartment, Ashley and Ray had been her neighbours. The three of them hit it off right away, particularly as Ashley was a senior manager at Docklands Studios. Christie worked on films there on occasion, and they knew quite a few of the same people in the insular industry.